


The Lady Of Ishnain Nemartra

by Phoebe_Zeitgeist



Category: The Worm Ouroboros - E. R. Eddison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Zeitgeist/pseuds/Phoebe_Zeitgeist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Although for reasons that by their nature I trust will remain utterly unclear, I am not in a position to thank my beta readers by name.  But their help and my gratitude are no less real for that.</p><p>Written for Rush-That-Speaks</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Lady Of Ishnain Nemartra

**Author's Note:**

> Although for reasons that by their nature I trust will remain utterly unclear, I am not in a position to thank my beta readers by name. But their help and my gratitude are no less real for that.
> 
> Written for Rush-That-Speaks

 

 

On Midsummer Eve, some seven weeks after that high festival of the Lord Juss's nativity, the lords of Demonland conducted Queen Sophonisba to Lookinghaven, there to take ship for wide-fronted Impland and her own home of Koshtra Belorn after her guesting with them in many-mountained Demonland. The evening was fine and still as they rode down to the quay, and peace lay over the firth like a dream.

In that faring rode also the Lady Mevrian, for (by the invitation of the immortal Gods most warmly furthered and seconded by the Queen), it was her purpose to guest with the Queen for a time in Koshtra Belorn. Sore against her brother the Lord Brandoch Daha's wish fared she; against his wish, but nevertheless with his leave. For when he broached the matter with her, urging her to consider once more the wisdom of such a venture, and the peril thereof (and she not a year rested from her exile in the mountains of Demonland), she but raised her head higher, her mouth settling into lines of yet firmer resolve. And she answered him, "This invitation cometh from the best friend and truest furtherer Demonland hath had in the world. And not Demonland only, but thou my brother, and my cousins: most of all my cousin Goldry Bluszco, who but for the Queen's help and counsel would bide still in the prison of Zora Rach Nam Psarrion. Shall we do her such discourtesy, to refuse this hospitality freely offered? Or more, shall we so insult the Gods themselves, who remade the world for thee at her prayer?" And when he still would object, pleading her safety, she added, "There is this besides. Shall Corinius then so triumph upon us, that for terror of him I must be mewed up in Krothering all my life days, who would else have all the wide world open before me? A fine boast for him to make before the great King in Carcë, and such shame to us as we of Demonland have never yet learned to bear." 

* * * * *

Many were the entertainments and the pleasures that Queen Sophonisba laid before her guest in the dwelling that the blessed Gods had made for her. Of them all, though, the Lady Mevrian delighted most in the sight of the Zimiamvian mountains, that overtopped all others upon the earth as much for splendour and beauty as for their lofty height. And often she sailed upon the Lake of Ravary to look upon them: sailed alone, for the Queen Sophonisba loved not the sport save only on the stillest waters, and then for a little time only.

On an afternoon of golden September, as she sailed thus upon the lake far from shore, a sudden storm swept down unlooked-for from the Psarrion glaciers. At one moment the lake was calm and the day bright; at the next was green darkness and hail about her, and the dismal roaring of waters. In this tempest it seemed to the Lady Mevrian that even the Queen's boat must be capsized and sunk, and herself lost in the waves. Yet in the midst of the tumult it seemed to her that she espied from time to time a light afar off, and by main determination and the sound seamanship learned from her father in days gone by stayed afloat, holding course there-for as best she could, and at last felt the boat lifted under her and tossed as by a negligent god onto a stony shore, there to lie in ruin around her.

After a little time the Lady Mevrian arose from the wreck, uninjured albeit somewhat shaken. Thankful she was for the foresight of her cousin the Lord Juss, who had provided her with charms against such injury and urged her most pressingly to wear them always. And looking up she beheld a little castle before her, perched on a spur of rock that ran down into the sandy beach. Its gates and door stood open, so that she might behold the courtyard, and a hall within lighted by candles. So she entered in, and within the hall found a board set as for a banquet, yet with but a single cover laid thereon, and an ivory chair that moved back from the table at her approach, inviting her to sit her down.

At that table did the lady Mevrian take her evening meal: the strangest she had taken in all her life days. For sumptuous dishes and for every grace that might delight the senses, scarce might the high feast days and rich furnishings of Krothering or Galing itself surpass that set before her now; yet instead of that fair company with which she was used to dine, and the sound of lute or spinet, here all was silence. Nor were there any human servants to attend that feast, but all was set before her by beasts of the wild forest: the bear and the she-bear; the serpent with his jewelled skin; the raccoon with his clever hands. Nor came there word or sign from her unseen host.

Yet when that dinner was past, and there came before her the serpent bearing with his tail a dish of water scented with rose-petals in which she might bathe her fingers, she was aware at once of a faint sound as of a distant bell, and there entered into that chamber an old man dressed in the robes of a doctor of philosophy. She would have risen to greet him, but the old man forestalled her, saying, "My Lady Mevrian, my mistress bids you welcome to her house of Ishnain Nemartra. A chamber is prepared for your rest, and in that chamber dwells sweet sleep, and hearts-ease, and balm for all sorrow. Should you wish it, this servant of hers will conduct you thither." He stretched forth a hand to show her a mountain-lynx with fiery eyes, standing before the western door. "Yet my Lady would have you know that in the eastern tower she keepeth a sparrow-hawk sitting on a perch. If you will wake her sparrow-hawk this night long, alone and without sleep, then will my Lady come to you at the dawn, and will grant you the first thing you will ask of her, of all earthly things." With that word spoke the Lady Mevrian was aware once more of the pealing of the bell, and that old man vanished like a dream. And with his vanishing a great weariness came over her, so that she yearned for nothing more than sleep.

Yet in the midst of her weariness, she bethought her of her brother, and of her cousin the Lord Juss, and of their adventures in wide-fronted Impland: of how they ventured there though cold and such extremity of exhaustion that no men else should have come back alive to speak of it, and so achieved their will. And she said to the mountain-lynx, "Conduct me, I pray thee, to the eastern tower. For I will not return thy mistress's courtesy with a disdaining of this adventure she hath offered me."

So the lynx led her to the eastern tower, where there was a chamber warm and richly furnished with cushions of velvet and soft benches, and all things most conducive to sweet slumber. And there by a window was the sparrow-hawk on its perch, looking out to the night that was filled with hail and wind and rumblings of thunder. It looked up at her entrance, regarding her evilly. 

But there in that chamber was the lady Mevrian reminded most strangely of the days and nights of her exile from Krothering, when she dwelt in the mountains and caves of Demonland as in a refuge, with neither cushion nor bench for a resting-place, nor window-glass against the storm. And she thought her too of the Lord Gro, and of his friendships with the little creatures of their mountain shelter. So thinking, she nodded gravely to the sparrow-hawk; then turning her back upon it, she took down a lute from the wall and sang as to herself, in her voice that was sweet and rich as the last light of a fair autumn evening: 

> _Alas, my love, you do me wrong_  
>  To cast me off discourteously  
>  And I have loved you so long  
>  Delighting in your company.

All the while she sang she felt the sparrow-hawk's eye on her. And when the Lady Mevrian saw that it looked less evilly upon her she spoke it fair, saying, "O sparrow-hawk, wilt thou of thy courtesy wake with me this night? For well I know that for thee the night is made for rest, and I would not constrain thee to forego thy sleep and bear me company against thy will."

At that word it rustled in all its feathers and then replied, "Lady, I give you thanks. Gladly will I wake with you if you will sing to me, for we have little music here, and sorely do I miss it. Grant me but a moment to change my cloak." And while she looked in wonder the sparrow-hawk stretched forth its wings, and stood more firmly erect on its perch, and when it furled its wings about itself again, behold a great snowy owl standing on the perch in the sparrow-hawk's place. It looked at her with unblinking amber eyes, and with that change the Lady Mevrian felt the weight of sleep lift from her. So she sang to the owl through that night, as the storm without stilled and the stars blazed forth again in their glory, and as the sky paled to the dawn, pausing ever and anon to have conversation with it, and hear tales of its adventures. 

With the first rays of sunlight struck through the eastern window there entered a lady into that chamber. Very tall she was, and beautiful beyond the beauty of mortal women; and it seemed to the Lady Mevrian that she wore the crescent moon in the piled tresses of her hair that was black as the raven's wing. In her wide green eyes and in the curl of her mouth were a delicate mockery, and there was laughter in her voice when she spake and said, "Require it of me, my Lady Mevrian, that which thou most desirest of earthly things."

But the Lady Mevrian stood doubtful before her, and her heart was troubled. "Oh my Lady of Ishnain Nemartra," she said at last, "think not ill of me, I pray you, if I ask your counsel or ever I ask your gift. For since it has pleased the blessed Gods to grant to my brother and cousins their great wish, of youth unending and unending skill in arms therewith; and their to their great enemies that same life, is there indeed aught earthly left in the world that I might ask? For now is the whole world changed and made a thing unnatural, where generations of men will come and go, fight our wars and make songs for us, while we abide changeless for ever. What indeed is there that I might desire, who may look forward to no change nor alteration, but may live forever in comfort in my brother's house at Krothering, save at whiles when the chances of war may bring enemies to besiege it and force me thence for a season?"

"Is there nothing, then, thou couldst wish for?"

"Much could I wish for, madam," she said in a drowned voice. "Gladly would I have what my brother and cousins have, or my friend the Lord Gro who now must once again be mine enemy: the freedom of the wide world, to live and act in, not merely be ornament in. I would be not be other than woman; yet, would that I could have the strength of a man, and be free of men's desire. But you bade me choose from among earthly things."

"Indeed thy desire runneth beyond the strict bounds of the covenant," said that lady. "But scarce can I blame thee for it, caught as thou art in this tangle of the Olympians' making." She lifted her wrist then, and the owl flew to her noiseless on his great wings, and settled himself in the crook of her arm. "Thou art sworn to Artemis, I think."

"Yes, Lady," Mevrian said, wondering.

"And wouldst thou truly wish to be free of the desire of men forever? I will remember thee, madam, that it was the Thunderer himself made the rhyme: 

> _Riddle me this, ye Gods above:_  
>  What's Lecherie withouten Love?  
>  A thing less Maym'd, they answered Me,  
>  Than maym'd were Love sans Lecherie.

Thou wilt say, 'He that made that rhyme was a man;' and rightly so. But it is as a woman I tell thee: tis no small thing thou wouldst sacrifice if the Gods gave thee thy wish indeed."

The Lady Mevrian nodded gravely. "Madam, so I have always been told, and I believe it as I believe any thing that may be known by authority and philosophy, without the knowledge born of the body. But I know it not by acquaintance, as other maids of my years do know it. I yearn for the world and the freedom thereof, and I dream not of any lover."

The Lady of Ishnain Nemartra stroked the owl where it nestled against her. Its feathers in the morning light showed not more dazzling pale than that lady's fingers and arm, and now the Lady Mevrian might see that she wore glow-worms in her hair. "Artemis, Hera, Persephone, Pallas," she said at last. "What are each and all but dresses of Hers? And for thee, my sparrow-hawk weareth his owl dress; sees thine own dress aright, may be. So I shall give thee the gift of Pallas: that men shall look upon thy beauty with awe and not with the desire of the flesh. Strength in arms goeth with the gift, for Pallas is mighty in war. And wisdom goeth therewith as well — but that thou hast already; in what measure, thy brother may some day tell thee. May the years not give thee cause to regret the gift, for it cannot be undone save by the remaking of this world."

The sky had lightened as she spoke, so that now all that tower room was filled with the brilliance of dawn. Most brilliant of all shone that Lady of Ishnain Nemartra: in her countenance, in the dark radiance of her hair, in all the lines of her body was a glory that might do down worlds. The walls around them wavered and seemed to fade to transparency, and looking beyond them, the Lady Mevrian thought she beheld waves dancing against a distant shore. Her eyes burned with the vision, as a child's who has looked too incautiously into the noonday sun. 

A moment only; and the vision had faded, and the tower walls were solid once more. The Lady of Ishnain Nemartra turned to the shadowy door. "Thou wilt be weary with this night past," she said over her shoulder, and at her words Mevrian indeed felt a bone-deep weariness descend upon her, as if after a long struggle she stood at last and at the bitter end of her strength before the gates of her own house. "This mountain-cat of mine will show thee to thy rest." 

"Lady, I give you all thanks," the Lady Mevrian said. But even as she spoke that Lady was gone, leaving behind her only a hint, barely discernable, of honey-sweet laughter on the air. In her place stood the lynx, and glad the Lady Mevrian was to follow it to the bedchamber prepared for her, and to fall there into slumber.

* * * * *

At the dawn of day she woke refreshed and merry of heart. Looking about the chamber she saw none of her own raiment, but harness was laid out for her, like indeed to the harness that Prince Cargo had lent to her on the night she fled her brother's house, but richer still and lighter, of such workmanship as even the armorers of Demonland would marvel at. She did it on, and having breakfasted followed the mountain-cat to the courtyard. There before the door behold two horses awaiting of her: one white as milk, saddled and bridled with a headstall worked with silver and moonstones, and one dark as night, packed as though for a journey. Of the wreckage of the Queen Sophonisba's little boat there was no sign. 

"Give thy mistress my thanks," she told the lynx. "Tell her this from me, that I shall strive to be worthy of her gift. For well do I know its value, and how greatly she hath favored me." With those words she mounted, and rode forth from the castle gates. And it was a great marvel to her to see how there was now no sight nor sign of the Lake of Ravary, but only wasteland around her. And when she had gone but a little way looking behind her she saw that the very castle had vanished from its place, as though it had been but a phantasm of the desert.

So she continued on that day, wondering at all that had passed. And with the drawing on of evening, she rounded a copse of thorn-trees and espied a solitary rider, and beyond him a little encampment by a rushing stream. The rider looked up at the sound of her horses' hoofs, and the last of the daylight fell full on his great ox eyes and long curled beard. She cantered forward to meet him. 

"My Lady Mevrian," the Lord Gro said, and his voice trembled for very joy. "As the ill spirits that dwell in the wastes of the Moruna may counterfeit not thy purity, so do I know thee for thy noble self, and no deceiving phantom. Yet no wonder the Moruna might show me could be more strange to me than this, nor more grateful to mine eyes. Mevrian, how comest thou here?"

"That, my Lord Gro, is a riddle wants a philosopher indeed to untangle," she said. In his face she read welcome, and that sweet companionship that is itself an end, wanting nothing further for its perfection. "I'll tell it thee while we ride." 

 


End file.
